La Peu Jeune Fille de Cendres, or Fantine's Locket
by Camberleigh Fauconbridge
Summary: The world thought that a gamine could never rise to respectability, or the leader of a revolution never would open his heart to one other than Patria. But a broken locket changed everything… 25th Anniversary. AU.
1. Chapter 1

_La Peu Jeune Fille de Cendres, o__r, Fantine's Locket_

By Camberleigh Fauconbridge

**Imagined Cast**: Alfie Boe as Jean Valjean; Norm Lewis as Javert; Lea Salonga as Fantine; Matt Lucas as Thénardier; Jenny Galloway as Madame Thénardier; Nick Jonas as Marius Pontmercy; Samantha Barks as Éponine Thénardier; Katie Hall as Cosette Fauchelevant; Ramin Karimloo as Enjolras; Robert Madge as Gavroche; Mia Jenkins as Young Cosette.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing. The characters, setting and general plot are property of Victor Hugo, Cameron Mackintosh, all of the casts and all of the creative teams that have produced any production of _Les Misérables_.

**Note**: This is based off the musical stage adaption, _not_ off any film adaption or the original novel. There are elements of the book (street names of the locations in numerous French towns and cities; family ties are also as they are in the novel), but almost all of the information comes from the musical stage adaption. The title is a French translation of "the little girl of ashes." This fanfic is based partly off the French folktale of Cinderella by Charles Perrault.

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><p>Act I, Scene 1<p>

_There's a Castle, Just Waiting for You_

**December 24, 1823, ****Montfermeil, France**

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><p>The wind raged viciously outside the inn as Éponine sat by the main room's hearth, a fire blazing within. She held a cloth doll with locks of bright yarn and shining black button-eyes in her hand as her young sister Azelma looked on enviously.<p>

Another girl watched the doll with a wistful aura. She sat, huddled underneath a table, hidden for a few minutes from the watchful eye of the madame of the inn.

In contrast to the girls by the hearth, with their dark hair gleaming in the firelight, hers was a fair, pretty blonde, framing her pale skin. Was her hair and her eyes, a crystal sapphire-like blue, inherited from her mother? No; from the little she remembered of her mother, her mother had dark, wavy hair that fell to her waist, rich brown eyes that always seemed to sparkle and skin tanned from the sun. Was it from the father? Perhaps, but she would never know for certain, for she had never seen him.

"Cosette!"

The blonde girl flinched as a harsh voice called her name— a horrible action for one so young. Trembling, she crawled from the shelter of the table.

"_Oui, madame_?" Her light voice was shaking. A large, formidable woman came from behind the inn's counter to face the young girl.

Life had not been kind to Maximilienne Oriane Thénardier, _née_ Gagne, wife of Fabien Guillaume Thénardier. The customers at the inn— sometimes even her own husband— had cruelly nicknamed her "the Thénardiess"— a name more befitting to an ogre or a troll than a person. Her hazel eyes were bright and sharp, seeming to see everything at once. Her hair was constantly frizzed and unmanageable unless pulled back, and wisps of red strands always escaped the rag tied around her hair.

However her features looked, it was her expression of hatred, burning, deep-set hate, that drove others away. Perhaps she directed her hate at her husband, or was it towards life itself, for placing her in such a situation? Mme. Thénardier would rather be beaten within an inch of her life than reveal the true reason.

Mme. Thénardier grabbed a bucket from behind the counter and roughly shoved it at Cosette. "Th' 'orses are running low on water. Go t' th' well in th' woods an' bring it back full, or there'll be no money from th' customers if their horses are dehydrated."

Cosette's trembling grew violent. "Madame, please, the trees are so dark and tall outside! Don't make me go—"

Mme. Thénardier pushed Cosette towards the door. "Ev'ry drop is t' stay in th' bucket. Understood?" When Cosette did not move, Mme. Thénardier shoved the girl once more before going back to the counter. She did not look to see Cosette stumbling out the door.

Cosette shivered as the wind cut unmercifully through the rags she called clothing. In an instant, her entire body felt as if someone was pouring buckets of ice onto her, without ceasing. She almost turned back, but the thought of Mme. Thénardier's reaction stopped her. She gripped the handle of the bucket and started forward.

Cosette's fear of the dark was perfectly normal— every child has crawled to their parents, crying about monsters of the imagination. Every child has seen shadows in the roads, horrors in the woods. One can understand, once one looks at it from the view of a child, Cosette's fear. The road that led to the wellspring was long, and wove its way into the belly of the beast— the huge, dark woods that could devour a small girl. At least, that is what the girl told herself.

As Cosette neared the barely visible wellspring, the darkness loomed, eerily, threateningly, above the wellspring and within. The masons of Montfermeil had built the wellspring flesh against a low wall made of dilapidated stones.

Cosette leaned over the circle of stones, trembling at the infinite darkness. As she gazed at the shimmering water, the night and her fears began to send apparitions before her eyes. An image of a beautiful woman— a woman with brown hair and tanned skin, dressed in a white gown— came from the depths of the water, gazing sadly at the girl before fading away. Cosette shuddered. It was almost as if she had seen the woman before, but she could not quite remember when.

Then the apparition of Mme. Thénardier came before her. With a start, Cosette returned to the present. She hastily lifted the empty bucket onto the rim of the wellspring, tied the rope around the bucket's handle as securely as she could, and tipped it into the water. The bucket made a dull sound as it hit the surface and gently floated.

Cosette waited for a few moments, and then dragged the bucket out of the water. To a small girl of eight, one who was delicate in nature, the bucket seemed filled with a leaden weight. Cosette bit her lip as her muscles strained to keep the liquid within the bucket. The bucket tipped slightly as it landed on the ground, almost seeming to mock her as a small amount of water splashed onto her feet.

Now the impossible journey loomed before Cosette. Grasping the handle determinedly in her small hand, she started walking.

Determination can only take one so far, and soon the weight of the bucket forced Cosette to stop frequently. A tear of exhaustion and fear emitted from her eye, but froze as soon as the wind met the liquid, and she restrained all further tears as best she could.

She was walking on the main road when she sensed someone beside her.

Instantly, her young mind jumped to a conclusion about the traveler's identity. There had been, for a time, talk of a mysterious stranger in the woods in Montfermeil. The gossiping women of the village had eluded the stranger to be the Devil, coming to bury his riches. Parents told the tale to young children to quiet them. Mme. Thénardier had repeatedly threatened Cosette with the story, and Cosette had lain awake many nights, terrified the Devil would come and bury her alive. Therefore, when she saw an unknown man in the woods, it ignited her fears as a spark starts a fire.

As she looked at the man closer, her fears gradually subsided. The man wore a worn coat of coarse yellow fabric and an old hat of dark blue coloring. From the stories Cosette had heard, the man did not fit the description whatsoever.

"Would you like some help with that bucket, child?" said the man.

Cosette nodded, her fear replaced completely by the trusting attitude children possess. For a moment, she was no longer an abused slave, but a child of eight years who had been shown a kindness.

"Thank you, monsieur," she replied. She handed him the bucket.

"What is your name?"

"Cosette."

"Cosette? Interesting," the man murmured. "Who do you live with, Cosette?"

"M. and Mme. Thénardier, in the inn."

"May I meet them, Cosette?" asked the man. Cosette nodded once more.

Gradually, the trees thinned until the road led to the brightly lit Ruelle Boulanger. One shop Cosette could not help but glance at; the toy-shop, where the doll that would be Catherine sat. Cosette tore her gaze away— the action noticed by the man— and they walked to _Le Sergent au Waterloo_.

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><p>The next day, Éponine sat next to the window that overlooked the Ruelle Boulanger, fingering the shining ten-<em>sou<em> coin she had found in her shoe that morning.

M. Thénardier flung open the door of the inn and stormed inside. He looked furious.

"That son o' a _chiene_ stole Cosette!" M. Thénardier spat.

"'E paid for 'er, didn't 'e?" Mme. Thénardier asked.

M. Thénardier glared at her. "He paid me less than what I asked for."

"Papa," Éponine ventured, "he paid the fifteen hundred _francs_."

"I asked for more than fifteen 'undred. Surely, you ain't as stupid as you look, 'Ponine." A stung look crossed Éponine's face, and she retreated to the window. "Th' only thing that matters now," M. Thénardier continued, "is t' make 'im pay."

As M. Thénardier talked on, planning his revenge, Mme. Thénardier turned to Éponine. "Get th' bucket."

Éponine looked shocked. "But, _maman_—"

"I told you t' go, 'Ponine! Cosette may 'ave left, but we still 'ave an inn t' run. Go!" Éponine stood and left the inn with the bucket, wondering what else would change.


	2. Chapter 2

Act I, Scene 2

_Here, You Can Always Catch Me In_

**May 1831, ****Paris, France**

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><p>Éponine approached the townhouse No. 55 on the rue Plumet. She nervously went to the door and rang the bell. There was one reason she was coming to No. 55, and one reason alone— to get a job.<p>

Ever since Cosette had left Montfermeil ten years previously, Éponine's life had changed for the worse. Éponine, being the oldest child of the Thénardiers, had taken the bulk of the responsibilities Cosette had left behind. As time progressed, the conditions grew harsher. Even with every member of the family working the hardest they could, Fabien Thénardier's swindling had finally taken its toll. The proprietor evicted them from the inn within a year of Cosette's departure.

Paris was the only place that offered any hope for the poor from the provinces. M. Thénardier took his family there, hoping Paris would open her arms wide and welcome them as the father received the prodigal son.

How very wrong they were.

Paris was not the place of salvation it had promised. M. Thénardier could not find a job, as hard as he searched, and the first place they settled was underneath a sodden, icy bridge.

As the years went by, their horrible situation exacerbated. Éponine went from being the daughter of a modestly rich innkeeper— the rose, the beauty, of Montfermeil— to the impoverished daughter of a beggar and a thief—where people, because of her status, recoiled as she walked past. She went from privileged to shunned.

But she refused to give in. She refused to accept what Fate had given her, combing Paris for any job she could find. Often Éponine supported her family only on her meager wages. The only trade she utterly refused to consider was joining the "ladies of the evening," which was the politest name they could be called. As hard as life grew to be, she would not degrade herself to that level of ignominy. When she heard of a position in a bourgeois household, she seized the chance and went to offer her assistance.

The door swung open, catching Éponine off guard. An older woman in servant attire stared critically at her. "Yes?"

Éponine cleared her throat uneasily. "Good day, madame. I am here to inquire about a position in this household." The woman's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but she opened the door further and let Éponine into the house.

The interior of the townhouse, Éponine noted, was modest but tasteful. The style was, it was true, designed with the feminine in mind, but here and there was evidence of masculine touches.

"Wait here," the woman instructed Éponine as she left to find Éponine's possible employer. A few minutes later, the woman entered the foyer with a man with dark brown hair. His brown eyes were warm, and his even step revoked his age.

"Good day," he greeted Éponine. "I see you have already met Mme. Toussaint. I am Ultime Fauchelevant, mademoiselle…"

Éponine curtsied. "Éponine Thénardier, monsieur." She prayed her skirt was not threadbare.

"Thénardier? Any relation to the Thénardiers in Montfermeil?" M. Fauchelevant's tone was light, but Éponine tell the name reminded him of something.

Éponine felt as if lying to M. Fauchelevant would be betraying what little trust she had. "My father, monsieur," she replied quietly.

She could tell the name still bothered him— she could not think of what the cause might have been— but he seemed to put it in the back of his mind. "Would you be so kind as to step into the parlor, Mlle. Thénardier? I will introduce you to my daughter in a moment."

Once they sat down, M. Fauchelevant spoke. "Now, I understand you are applying for the position of assistant for my daughter, is that correct?"

"Yes, monsieur. I am a fast learner and hard worker."

He nodded and stood, going to the door. "Mme. Toussaint, would you tell Mlle. Fauchelevant to come to the parlor, _s'il vous plaît_?" Mme. Toussaint disappeared for a few moments. Then Éponine heard the sound of heeled slippers over a wooden floor, and the parlor opened.

"Good morning, Papa," the young woman said warmly as she entered. She wore a dress of pale, creamy yellow styled in the fashion of Paris of the time, and her crystal blue eyes contrasted well with her thick blonde hair.

Then she noticed Éponine. "Who is this, Papa?"

"This is Éponine. She will be your personal maid, if you are willing to let her work for you. I know you have been asking for assistance for some time now."

Éponine rose to her feet and curtsied. "A pleasure to meet you, mademoiselle," she murmured.

"I am Cosette, Mlle. Éponine. I am glad you have agreed to work for me."

After the words "I am Cosette," Éponine heard nothing else.

_Cosette_.

She could not be Cosette. She could not. The Lark had worked for _her_ family. How had she risen to such heights?

"It will be an honor," she heard someone say, and realized it was her voice. Éponine numbly followed Cosette to the second floor of the townhouse. Cosette's bedchamber was of modest proportion and decoration, and every article of furniture, from the chaise lounge to the four-post bed, proclaimed _bourgeois_.

Cosette led Éponine back to the hallway and gestured to a diminutive stairwell. She explained Éponine's bedchamber was to be in the alcove of No. 55's attic, and led Éponine to the garret.

From Éponine's jaded view as a member of the working class, the space was more than she could have dreamed. It was sparse, with simple iron bed and modest pallet, but it also included a window overlooking the overgrown back garden. One wall paralleled the chimney, so Éponine could be sure of warmth in the winter months.

Éponine turned to Cosette and dropped a curtsy, mindful of her position, yet the joy with her circumstance superseding, to some extent, her persistent suspicion of Cosette. "What task do you wish me to start first, mademoiselle?"

"My father has something for you, Éponine," Cosette replied, smiling. "You may go." Éponine curtsied again and left.

M. Fauchelevant stood by the parlor door as she descended from the staircase. "M. Fauchelevant, monsieur," she said, "Mlle. Fauchelevant told me you have a task for me."

"That is right," M. Fauchelevant responded. "Come with me, if you will." Éponine followed him out a side door to the front of the house.

As they walked outside, it seemed to Éponine the garden could have been Eden, reincarnate from thousands of years ago. Everything was overgrown, but it had an aura of a beautiful, peaceful mysteries. If Aphrodite were not born from the foam of the sea, the bewitching garden of No. 55 would have been a perfect option. Ivy vines covered the front of the townhouse, and crumbling statues and dilapidated fountains were spread around the enclosure. The whole effect was, in a word, charmed.

Éponine turned to M. Fauchelevant. "What will you have me do, monsieur?"

He gestured to a wellspring in the corner of the garden she had not noticed, and said, "I would like the vegetable and flower gardens to be watered."

"Vegetable garden, monsieur?" Éponine decided not to point out the state of the rest of the garden. M. Fauchelevant gestured to another area of the garden, and she realized there was, indeed, a vegetable garden and a flower garden showing order. "Yes, monsieur. How often do you wish them to be watered?"

"Once at dawn and once at dusk. I have a copy of _Flora of the Environs of Cauteretz_ by Mabeuf if you need to reference anything, and you may ask Cosette, Mme. Toussaint or I if you have any questions. You may begin." Éponine curtsied and went to the wellspring as M. Fauchelevant went back inside. Éponine drew a bucket from the depths of the wellspring and proceeded to water the delicate sprays of honeysuckles and corydalises.

Even though everything she could have wished for had become a reality— a secure position, a steady income, and a way out of the life her father led— her suspicious nature as a Thénardier refused to leave.

How their lives had changed. Now Cosette was privileged, and Éponine the servant. How would Cosette treat her, now that Eponine was underneath her?

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><p><strong>I hope someone caught the reference to Mabeuf...<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

Act I, Scene 3

_Where Are the Leaders of the Land?_

**May 1831, Paris, France**

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><p>Marius Georges Arnaud Pontmercy was shut in his room, desperately cramming for a Public Law exam scheduled the next day, when the door slowly opened. He looked up. "What is it?"<p>

A maid stood in the doorway— Nicolette, was that her name? Then again, it was not her true name, but no matter— and spoke quietly. "M. Gillenormand wishes you to come to his study at once, monsieur."

With a groan of frustration, Marius tossed the law book aside and stood up. "Tell him I'll be there in a moment. You may go." Nicolette curtsied and left.

Marius ran a hand over his face, attempting to make his appearance more awake than it actually was. Hours of nonstop studying day after day was taking its toll. He took a deep breath and left his room. A few moments later, he was standing in front of the thick oak door, trying to summon the will to open it.

As a child, even though he had the whole townhouse to roam, his grandfather's study was the only place he was restricted from entering. Not that he would have wanted to in the room, anyway. There was something so forbidding and purely _adult_ about it— the cigar smoke so thick it choked him at times, the secret business deals conducted there. Fortunes were made and lost in that room. Even at eighteen, Marius still was apprehensive about entering.

Now was not the time to be hesitant. He raised his hand and knocked. A voice came from within the depths of the study, telling him to enter, and he obeyed.

Luc-Esprit Gillenormand sat behind the solid desk, watching as Marius approached. From his position and the look in his eyes, one would never guess he cared about his grandson. However, he did, even though he hated the bandit, the brigand of the Loire, Marius' father, Pontmercy.

"So you've finally left your books, have you?" M. Gillenormand said gruffly.

"I have an exam tomorrow, grandfather," Marius replied.

M. Gillenormand snorted. "At least it isn't those _Buonaparte_ books again." Marius said nothing, though his blood turned hot with anger at the comment.

"Now," M. Gillenormand continued, "you are wondering why I called you here, are you not?" He did not wait for answer. "Of course you are. I will not be one to keep you in the dark.

"I have noticed that while you are dedicated to the studies at the university, you do not seem to have time for anything else. A shame, Marius. Why, when I was young, I worked _and_ kept a few mistresses on the side until I got married—"

"Yes, grandfather." Marius interrupted him before he could go into any more details. "I believe you were speaking about my devotion at the Sorbonne…"

"Ah yes. You, my boy, do not seem interested in the opposite gender whatsoever. May I ask why?"

Marius could not very well say _because a woman would interfere with my dedication for my father_, not in front of M. Gillenormand. "A woman would hinder my studies, grandfather."

"I'm glad you want to do well at the university, but you need to live a little. Expand your horizons. That's why I am arranging to invite at eligible young bourgeois women to a ball in hopes you will find your future wife there."

Marius started, and he hoped desperately he heard it wrong. "My future _wife_?"

"Why, of course. Surely, you did not expect to remain a bachelor forever. And since you have no interest, we have to instigate these things ourselves."

"'We,' grandfather?"

"Your aunt and I."

"But—" Marius could not form a complete thought. "But why _now_? I am only eighteen years old! I'm still a student! I don't have the money or the time to support a wife!"

"Do you think I'm going to throw you out there to be devoured without giving you support?" M. Gillenormand laughed dryly. "You don't have to actually get married until you leave the university."

"Then why _now_? Can't we postpone this until later?"

"You won't understand the joys of engagement until you experience it, my boy. While you're at it, find a mistress to keep on the side until your marriage. Just in case."

Marius swallowed a biting comment. "I'll consider it, grandfather. Will that be all?"

"Yes, yes. Go back to your studying." M. Gillenormand waved a hand nonchalantly to indicate Marius' dismissal.

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><p>Marius left the townhouse and hailed a fiacre. As the carriage clattered down the smog-filled streets towards the Sorbonne, he had time to think.<p>

_Marriage_! What was his grandfather thinking? Surely, his grandfather understood the importance of doing well at the university. No, make that merely graduate; _survive_, even. He could not pay attention to the demands of a wife while studying! Moreover, a mistress was completely out of the question. Marius was sure any working girl would grab the chance to become the mistress of any bourgeois nobleman, but Marius' conscience would never let him rest if he did.

The fiacre stopped in front of the university. Marius exited, handed the driver a handful of coins and entered the building. He stopped by a door from within he could hear the drone of Professeur Blondeau, and quietly turned the door handle.

Class evidently had just ended, as the students were noisily gathering their possessions and heading towards the doorway. Marius searched the sea of faces and called out.

"Courfeyrac!"

Avent de Courfeyrac turned and made his way through the crowd. "What brings you here, Pontmercy?" he said in a low tone. "I thought you were skipping to studying for the Public Law exam."

"I haven't got time to explain. Can you meet me at the Musian this afternoon?"

Courfeyrac nodded. "We have a meeting scheduled anyway. Why?"

"Never mind that. Just make sure to be there. _Merci_, _mon ami_." Marius clapped Courfeyrac on the shoulder and left.

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><p>An hour later, Marius and Courfeyrac sat at a back table as the room slowly filled with the various members of the Society.<p>

As far as societies went, the Friends of the Abaissé were not customary in the least. It was composed of students, university students who needed a break from studying and decided politics were a good outlet. Most did not care much about the actual focus of the society; as far as they were concerned, the meetings were an excuse to skip class and drink. Rémi Grantaire was a drunkard; Chretian Feuilly was not a student of the university, but a fan maker; Germain Joly was not studying law as the others were, but medicine, as was Ignace Combeferre. Others, such as Courfeyrac, Olivier Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire, did not care about the fate of the working class.

The only one who truly cared was Enjolras D'Aubigne, the leader of the motley faction, but that was to be expected. The almost complete lack of dedication and enthusiasm to the Glorious Cause started many arguments between the students and— more often than not— Enjolras.

Marius did not side with either viewpoint, but if he had to voice his opinion, he would have leaned towards supporting the working class. He had seen how his grandfather's servants acted, how, at formal functions and the like, they were treated as if they were furniture. Marius would never be as against the treatment as Enjolras was, but sometimes the way the bourgeois treated the poor angered Marius. The poor had just as much rights as the bourgeois.

"Pontmercy?" The voice grew more impatient. "Pontmercy!"

"What?"

Courfeyrac was looking at him, half-annoyed, half-amused. "If you won't tell me why you insisted on meeting here to tell me some 'dark, important secret', then I'm wasting my time."

"Sorry, Courfeyrac." Marius sighed. "I'm a bit preoccupied."

"You've been staring at nothing for ten minutes, so I'll agree with you. Has some mysterious beauty captured your attention?"

"Not... exactly." Marius looked around. "You remember I was skipping Blondeau's class to study for the Public Law exam?"

Courfeyrac grinned. "Don't tell me you were _studying_, Pontmercy."

Marius ignored the allusion in his friend's voice. "The point is, my grandfather called me into his study and told me I had to get married."

Courfeyrac sat back, looking surprised. "Aren't you a bit young?"

"That's what I told him, but he wouldn't listen. He's organizing a ball in hopes I'll find a girl."

"Well, it's unusual, but why ask for my help? I cannot imagine your grandfather or whomever it is that's putting on the ball would listen to a law student. I can't help you there."

"I had an idea." Marius leaned forward and dropped his voice. "If I could convince everyone to attend, they could help me distract the women attending."

"Why would the women want to dance with _us_ when they could dance with _you_?"

"Pretend to be me or something. I can't be that well known that everyone knows what I look like."

Courfeyrac sighed. "Who knows if it'll work. But most everyone here won't want to go, except Grantaire for the free wine."

Marius grinned. "Will you help me?"

"All right. But I'm warning you already, this won't have much support." They both got up and started to go around the room, and a few minutes the two friends met back at the table.

"Bossuet is up to it," Courfeyrac listed off, "Joly would come if he can bring Musichetta, and Feuilly has to check his work schedule. What d'you find?"

"Combeferre isn't sure, Bahorel is coming, and Grantaire— well, all you need to know is that he's coming."

"What about Enjolras? Did you talk to him?"

"I haven't, not yet. You?" When Courfeyrac shook his head, Marius offered, "Let's both talk to him. He's going to be the hardest to convince."

As they both left the table and talked to Enjolras, the subject of their questions was not pleased to hear the news of a ball. They all, he told them, would benefit from a night filled with studying, instead of a night filled with alcohol and girls.

"I don't _want_ to go to the ball," Marius argued. "That's why I'm asking you all to come to distract the girls. I'd help you if you were in the same situation."

"I wouldn't _let_ myself be caught in that situation, Pontmercy! I apologize, but I will _not_ be able to attend!"

The words left Marius' lips before he realized what he was saying. "So now you're so narcissistic you'd ignore the working class in favor of furthering your own career!"

The room grew quiet as everyone realized what Marius had said. Enjolras' expression was impossibly dark. Then he spoke in a deadly tone, so quietly the members were straining to hear the words.

"Fine." Enjolras stood abruptly from the table and grabbed his coat. He slammed the door behind him, leaving the room in shocked silence.

"I didn't— I've got to go apologize."

"Wait a while, Pontmercy," Combeferre said. "He needs to have time to think it over, even though he agreed to go." Marius nodded, though his conscience was attacking itself with guilt.


	4. Chapter 4

Act I, Scene 4

_How Strange, This Feeling That My Life's Begun at Last_

**Early June 1831, Paris, France**

* * *

><p>Éponine brushed the feather duster over the tall green vase, careful and hesitant. Once there was no more dust clinging to the glass, she lifted the feather duster away from the vase and moved to another heirloom.<p>

Without warning, a door shut loudly from within the townhouse. Éponine started— she still hadn't gotten used to the way the household was run, even after a month of employment— and accidentally moved her elbow toward the direction of the vase.

It seemed the sound of glass shattering on wood echoed hugely, even rang, around the townhouse. She immediately backed away, arteries pounding and the telltale blush of shame covering her face. The parlor door opened sharply, and Mme. Toussaint stood in the doorway, looking aghast.

"What did you _do_?" she snapped. "That was a gift from Deacon Pierre-Louis, and you broke it!"

"I'm sorry— I didn't mean to—" Éponine stammered, attempting to redeem herself. "Let me clean it—"

"You'll break another antique heirloom. Don't touch it!"

"What is going on here?" M. Fauchelevant suddenly was at the parlor door.

Shaking, Éponine curtsied. She did not raise her eyes from the floor. "I— I'm sorry, monsieur— I—"

"She broke the vase from Deacon Pierre-Louis, monsieur!" Mme. Toussaint broke in.

"Frankly, I'm glad you did," he replied. "I've never particularly liked the vase, anyway. I kept it because it would have been impolite to refuse a gift from a friend, and Cosette told me it is fashionable. Personally, I do not think so. Then again, I don't know much about fashion."

Then, to Éponine's shock, he knelt next to Mme. Toussaint to gather the larger pieces.

At the very least, she expected to be slapped across the face, and at the very worst, fired. And here was her employer cleaning the broken glass, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

"Monsieur..."

M. Fauchelevant looked up. "Yes?"

She spoke quietly. "Do you wish me to gather my belongings and leave, monsieur?"

"Why ever would you say that?"

"I broke an heirloom, monsieur."

M. Fauchelevant waved a hand nonchalantly. "It was an accident, and it was an accident I'm glad happened. I see no reason to dismiss you."

_Keep quiet and be grateful you still had a job_ ordered the part of her mind that was still a Thénardier. Another part, her conscience, would not let her rest.

"Monsieur, I do not feel I should just… brush it off. I broke something that did not belong to me, that undoubtedly was expensive, and I feel I should be punished. If not dismissed, then something, monsieur."

"I don't see why you are asking for a punishment. The fact that you are apologizing and you realize you did wrong is enough."

"All the same, monsieur—"

He held up a hand. "Mlle. Thénardier, I am going to ask you to leave the townhouse and go to the mailbox. The walk and the fresh air will do you good, and maybe will convince you to cease torturing yourself with unnecessary guilt. You may go."

An uncommon authority showed in his voice, and Éponine instantly curtsied. "Yes, monsieur."

When she stepped onto the landing outside the back door, she realized he was right. The pure air enveloped her and filled her. She breathed deeply, inhaling the clear scent, and started down the hidden pathway between the rue Plumet and the rue de Babylone towards the mailbox. When she reached the end of the pathway, she crossed to the mailbox, unlocked No. 55's slot and drew out the envelopes and papers within. There was a letter from the National Guard— that wouldn't come of anything good, she could tell— bills, taxes, and…

There was a letter for Cosette, written with thick, bold handwriting in a dark ink. _To_ _Mlle. Fauchelevant, care of M. Fauchelevant, Rue Plumet, No. 55_. Curious, her hand slowly fingered the envelope flap.

Then her hand moved back so fast it was as if it had been burned.

What was she _doing_? She had managed to escape punished from the vase, and here she was, about to read her employer's mail. _What kind of person am I becoming?_

Her Thénardier nature persisted. _It couldn't hurt..._

_All right_, she told herself. _Just one look, then I'll head back to the house. _Before she could second-guess her decision, her fingers made quick work of the envelope. _Thank goodness the flap's not sealed_. Her hands were shaking as she pulled out the paper, certain someone would come behind her.

_Mlle. Euphrasie Nicole Fauchelevant_

_is cordially invited to the Betrothal Ball of_

_Baron Marius Georges Arnaud Pontmercy,_

_hosted by M. Luc-Esprit Gillenormand,_

_on the evening of Saturday, June 19th, 1831 _

_at the ballroom of Le Hôtel de Soubise_

_No. 60, rue des Francs-Bourgeois, IIIe Arrondissement, Paris_

_Free of charge_

_Transportation to the ball is not available_

_Ballroom opens at nine o'clock and closes at one o'clock_

Éponine suddenly heard the sound of footsteps coming to the mailbox. She hastily stuffed the invitation back into the envelope and folded the flap back to its original position. She hurried back with the letter and the rest of the mail, her thoughts tumultuous.

When Eponine stepped into the townhouse, Cosette was sitting by the window, doing needlework. Éponine never could understand how Cosette had the patience to devote such time to sewing, but Cosette could spent hours upon hours drawing a silver needle and vivid-colored thread through a silken piece of material, creating exquisite pieces of embroidery.

"I have the mail M. Fauchelevant requested, mademoiselle," Éponine said as she handed Cosette the post. Cosette smiled and thanked her as she sorted through the dispatch. Then she arrived at the letter from the Hôtel de Soubise.

"An invitation to a betrothal ball!" Cosette exclaimed. "I haven't been to a gathering since the wedding of my friend Marie. How I would love to attend."

"If you don't mind my asking, mademoiselle— why would you _not_ go?" Éponine asked cautiously.

"Oh, Papa has some silly aversion to parties. He's never liked that I attend them."

"An aversion to what, _ma chère_?" M. Fauchelevant said as he entered. "Oh, good, the post has arrived." He tactfully did not glance in Éponine's direction as he spoke.

Cosette then did something Éponine had never known her to do, even when they were children— she hid the invitation, concealing it in the folds of her skirt. Then she handed the rest of the mail to her father. M. Fauchelevant began going through the stack of letters, and, glancing in Cosette's direction, spoke offhandedly. "What's that, Cosette?"

A delicate blush tinted Cosette's pale skin. "Nothing, papa," she lied. Éponine picked up the feather duster once more, trying not to listen as the conversation continued. "It— it's nothing, really."

"Yet you look as if you are concealing something."

"I—" Cosette seemed to concede and handed her father the letter. "It's an invitation, papa," she said quietly.

"I can see that," M. Fauchelevant muttered. Even though Éponine was carefully facing away from him, she could tell by his tone he was not pleased with the information. Then Éponine heard the sound of the paper being hastily shoved back into the envelope, and M. Fauchelevant's voice grew sharp. "You're not going."

"Why ever not? It's just a party, papa!"

"You heard me, Cosette!"

"I'm not a child anymore! You can't just ground me or send me to my room with no supper like you would a child!"

"You're not an adult either!" His voice was growing dangerous.

Either Cosette did not notice, or she did not care, for she continued. "You can't stop me from going!" Éponine turned slowly, and barely saw M. Fauchelevant throwing the invitation into the fire.

A look of shock covered Cosette's face. She seemed on the verge of tears, for some unknown reason. Abruptly, she turned her heel and stormed out of the room. They all could hear her rapid footsteps on the stairs and the hard, meaningful slam of her bedroom door.

* * *

><p>Éponine climbed the staircase to Cosette's bedchamber, carefully balancing a tea tray in her hand. From what she had learned from her time as a servant in the Fauchelevant household, the <em>bourgeois<em>, she found, often found calm with a cup of tea. Why, she did not know; the poor and the working class, for one, never had enough time to rest long enough to make a pot of tea. But that was the _bourgeois_ for you.

When she hesitantly knocked on Cosette's door, she heard a muffled voice telling her to enter, which she obeyed.

Cosette was sitting on the chaise lounge when Éponine entered. Her eyes were rimmed with red, yet she still sat primly and with good posture, even in grief. _Grief_ was the only word Éponine could describe Cosette's countenance, for that would explain the pile of damp handkerchiefs.

"I was told to bring you a cup of tea, mademoiselle," Éponine said as she set the tray down on a side table. She curtsied and turned to leave.

"Éponine, wait." A delicate, pale hand was on Éponine's arm, preventing her from leaving. "What do you think about the invitation?"

"It's not really my place to say."

"But surely you must have an _opinion_. Wouldn't you want to attend?"

Éponine swiftly made a decision— perhaps added by her Thénardier nature— "Will you dismiss me if I answer your question?"

"Of course not."

Just to be safe, Éponine backed away slightly to be closer to the door. She curtsied for good measure and spoke quietly, looking down. "I— I _would_ like to attend, mademoiselle. Of course, it wouldn't be possible, but I would like to. Does that answer your question?"

"_Oui_." Cosette had a small smile on her lips, as if she had come to a decision. "I would like you to accompany me to the ball."

Éponine's dark eyes widened in shock. "I can't, mademoiselle! Your father would fire me if I did!"

"No, you wouldn't be fired, because I will cover for you. Oh, Éponine, do say yes. We'd have a delightful time. And you said yourself you would like to go."

"I did, but I didn't mean it like _that_! I can't—"

Cosette got up from the chaise lounge and stood at her full height— which, in reality, was not very much, as Éponine stood a good two inches taller. Cosette seemed aware of the fact, but she stood as straight as she could and looked Éponine directly in the eye. "As your employer, you _will_ accompany me to the ball. I insist."

Éponine stared unblinking back at Cosette, mica looking intently at sapphire. She realized this was the first instance she had seen of Cosette's secreted strength. Cosette had never once displayed it in their childhood— then again, she had good reason not to, as she would have been beaten for resisting an order— but even as they were both approaching adulthood, she had concealed strength in favor of a mild-mannered, getting-along-with-one-and-all manner_. I never would have guessed…_

But Cosette would not back down, Éponine knew, not on this. For some unknown reason, the ball was exceptionally important to Cosette. Éponine knew there was no other alternative than to obey.

"Yes, mademoiselle."

Cosette smiled genuinely. "Oh, thank you, Éponine! And you'll enjoy it, I know you will. Oh, this will be brilliant!"

"Mademoiselle…" Éponine was beginning to realize how many things could go wrong with this plan. "I don't own anything that would be formal enough for the ball, and I don't have the money to buy a dress. And on the invitation, it said there was no transportation—"

Éponine instantly stopped talking, silently cursing her tongue. _You're not supposed to have read the invitation, _remember_?_

But Cosette, thankfully, did not notice Éponine's slip of the tongue. "If all else fails, we can always hail a fiacre. And I'll have a dress made for you, don't worry. I need a new dress myself. We should go to the tailor's as soon as we can to make sure the dresses will be ready in time for the nineteenth. And we may have to buy you a new pair of dress shoes. I'm not sure any of my shoes would fit you." Éponine blushed, reminded once of how different they were— Cosette, small, delicate and everything a well-bred lady should be; Éponine was tall, gangly and the farthest possible thing from a lady as one could get— but did not comment.

Then something else occurred to her. "Mademoiselle, about the invitation…"

"Yes?"

"Well… M. Fauchelevant did _burn_ the invitation. How are we to find the location of the ball?"

Another of the day's many blushes crept onto Cosette's features, and the blonde spoke quietly, embarrassed. "I memorized it." Éponine chose, once again, not to remark, though it seemed slightly odd Cosette would commit the address to memory after seeing it once.

* * *

><p>A few days later, Éponine found herself being forced to <em>Le Ruban loqueteux<em>, which, according to Cosette, was a high-quality couturier on the Champs-Élysées. Cosette would not listen to Éponine's objections, no matter how she protested. So Éponine was made to put on dresses of fine quality, yes, but dresses filled with sharp pins, absurd ribbons, and ties constantly being pulled to the absolute maximum without breaking. The tailors clearly did not want to make a dress for a servant, and Éponine wanted to be anywhere but there; at least they had some small, mutual sentiment.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the tailors declared Éponine's dress to be mostly complete— though the final details would be finished afterward— and Cosette called her to a full-length mirror.

Éponine had not seen her reflection in years, and initially was shocked. She remembered her mother telling her of how she had been beautiful when she was a child. Now, apparently, that youthful beauty had fled.

There were some good things about her appearance, she concluded. She was slowly— though not completely— losing the malnourished, almost skeletal look, and a healthy pallor was beginning to return to her skin. Her hair was in good condition, clean and healthy, though it was longer than she had remembered.

But that did not add anything to beauty. Her eyes were not that beautiful shade of beryl or emerald that men seemed to favor so often; her eyes were brown, plain, dull, brown. Her hair was in the same state as her eyes: long, certainly, but not especially richly colored or soft. Her skin was not the desired pale color, but nearly an olive tone, tanned from so many days in the French summer sun.

The dress the tailors had made for her was a dark azure, cut in the fashionable style of the day. The sleeves were horribly puffed, but, at Éponine's request, they were the smallest size possible to reduce certain humiliation; at the moment, they hardly extended around her shoulders.

She looked at her mirror-self in the glass, seeing Cosette in the background, and suppressed a sigh. She dreaded the prospect of spending a long, awkward evening in the company of dry businessmen and women who did not have enough brains to speak of anything but the weather and one's health. And she would have to stay the entire evening, being quietly ignored or letting her tongue get herself in trouble, _again_.

There was no backing out.


End file.
